Six hours until sunset.
Then five.
Then four.
I'm reviewing the sequence with the mystic when the air pressure changes.
It hits like a physical force—compression against my eardrums, a weight settling over the room that has nothing todo with the clouds outside. The candles along the walls gutter despite there being no wind.
Rhystan goes rigid.
"What—" I start.
"Dragons." His voice is flat. Hard. "Multiple. Coming fast."
He's moving before I can respond, heading for the throne room entrance with purpose in every stride. I follow despite his obvious desire for me to stay put—I'm not hiding in a corner while unknown threats approach.
The mystic doesn't move. Just sighs and continues arranging herbs like incoming dragons are barely worth acknowledging.
"Your father," she says without looking up. "I was wondering when he'd arrive."
The courtyard is chaos by the time we reach it.
Six massive dragons in tight formation, circling lower with each pass. War God priests in blessed silver armor that catches the grey afternoon light and throws it back wrong—too bright, too sharp, designed to hurt dragon eyes. They're mounted on the smaller dragons, weapons drawn, movements coordinated with military precision.
And at the center of the formation, larger than all the others, scales the deep crimson of old blood?—
"Father." Rhystan's voice carries no emotion. None at all.
The crimson dragon lands hard enough to crack flagstones, sending guards scrambling backward. The shift happens fast—one moment massive wings and deadly claws, the next a man standing in the crater of his own landing. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden eyes exactly like Rhystan's but colder. Crueler.
He's wearing armor too. Not blessed silver—dragon-forged steel, black as his son's scales, fitted to a body that's clearly seen centuries of combat.
"Son." The word drips with contempt. "I hear you're planning something foolish."
"Father." Rhystan positions himself between me and the approaching threat. "I wasn't aware you were invited."
"Invited?" A cold laugh. "This is my kingdom. My bloodline. My curse you're apparently trying to destroy." His gaze slides past Rhystan to find me, standing behind him with my hands pressed to my belly. "And this must be the contaminated omega. The wild bloodline throwback who should have died on your altar."
The other dragons are landing now, priests dismounting with weapons ready. We're surrounded. Outnumbered.
Rhystan doesn't flinch.
"Her name is Kess. She's my mate. And you'll address her with respect or you won't address her at all."
"Mate?" His father's lip curls. "You bonded this—" He gestures at me dismissively. "This breeding stock? This vessel for bastards who'll probably kill each other in the womb anyway?"
Heat floods my chest. My own anger, Rhystan's through the bond, tangled together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Watch your tongue." Rhystan's voice drops to something dangerous. "That's your grandchildren you're talking about."
"Grandchildren." His father laughs again, harsher this time. "Cursed whelps from a contaminated bitch. One of whom will murder the other before they're even born, if the bloodline holds true." He spreads his hands, encompassing the courtyard, the castle, the priests with their gleaming weapons. "Is this what you're destroying everything for? Two children who probably won't survive anyway?"
"They'll survive." Steel underneath Rhystan's words. "The ritual tonight will break the curse. Save our daughter. Save our son from becoming what the curse would make him."
"The ritual." His father's expression hardens into something truly ugly. "Yes. I've heard about your little ritual. Breaking the curse that's protected this kingdom for three hundred years. The curse that made us feared. That kept our enemies cowering behind their borders because they knew what would happen if they faced us."
He takes a step forward. The priests shift with him, weapons angling toward us.
